


How Their Story Ended

by PiratePlume



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Just some random thing I decided to write up, but Charles is allowed to be overdramatic, clearly this obviously isn't the "end" for them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 09:25:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5285435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PiratePlume/pseuds/PiratePlume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leaving the ruins of Charlestown smoldering in their wake, Charles Vane (along with Flint and his crew) sail back to Nassau.  A stop must first be made in Tortuga to restock necessary supplies in order to complete the journey and it is there that the pirates learn their news is not the only life-changing event to has occurred.  While most of Nassau’s men welcome this event with cheer, Charles has a very different reaction…</p>
<p>[After the destruction of Charlestown, before John Silver awakens and reveals the “truth” of the gold to Flint]</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Their Story Ended

Celebratory were the rowdy men who piled into long boats by rank and rowed their way to shore. Excitement was a thrill in their veins, eyes wide and mouths stretched into smiles while making jests, laughter erupting shortly after. Each could hardly wait to pour into the taverns that awaited them, to drink deep into their cups and boast about what it was they had accomplished; the men who’d gone above the rebellion of piracy; they’d laid a civilized city to waste, rather than simply attacking a merchant vessel. These were the men who called Captain James Flint and Captain Charles Vane their leaders, men whose daring escape from the center of Charlestown made them like gods among sinners.

A smug smile pulled one side of Charles’ mouth higher than the other, seated side by side with a man he had, up until recently, considered an enemy. Their issues had not been resolved overnight and it was likely the pair wouldn’t always see eye to eye; with a shaky, equal understanding between them, they’d begun to work more cooperatively than anyone thought possible. Between the pair of them James Flint, though recently scorned by the world, still harbored more intellectual understanding of the inner workings of England’s navy than Charles did.

But Charles was a fighter and if there was anything he loathed more than a man he butted heads with, it was the pressure of societal reign breathing hot down his neck with the echoes of the irons they held, ready to clasp about his wrists. He could work alongside Flint now that they shared at least a sliver of a similar thought for what the world aimed to give them and what they intended to give in return.

As the skiff’s bottom hit the sand bank all the men began pouring out, scuffed, worn boots splashing into the saltwater. Charles was with them, walking with some of his men and some of Flint’s. The majority of them were familiar with Tortuga, knowing which tavern served ale that could be bought cheap, which brothels had the best girls, and where the rowdiest bunch could be found. Flint broke off from the rest and Charles walked a separate path. He glanced out toward Tortuga’s bay, where the ship which was previously called _The Fancy_ (and was now renamed _The Ranger_ ) was anchored. Beyond that, out of sight from pirates of Tortuga, lay the Spanish warship.

Even with word passing mouth to mouth by traveling pirates of Flint’s new vessel, they still had to take heed when sailing her into a pirate port. It had been Charles’ idea to leave her anchored offshore with a skeleton crew (some of the men of The Walrus elected to stay behind anyways, in case their new Quartermaster stirred) and take the rest of the men to retrieve supplies from Tortuga with _his_ ship.

The smell of lingering alcohol, faint sick, and sweat met his nose as he pushed into a tavern already alive with cheerful drunks. Charles shoved his way through the crowd; he often found, given his body language and size, the crowd made way for him. A coin proffered from his coat pocket earned him a tankard of ale; with it clasped in hand he navigated back through the drunks to make for a table where he spied an open chair. He should have given enough coin for whatever the cook had on (likely a stew of some sort, filled with mystery meats), but as he’d already sat he decided he could drink awhile longer before procuring a hot meal.

Setting the tankard down, he fished a cigarette from his pocket and proffered a nearby lit candle to ignite its end. Sitting back, he sucked in a cloud of tobacco, relishing in the taste before expelling it in a soft, billowing cloud that made the sight of dancing fools grow hazy.

Tomorrow, after the men had reconvened from their night of adventures, supplies would be procured (enough to sail them to Nassau) and they’d be on their way once more. Charles wondered what he would meet when his boots touched the sand of home, given the state he’d left it in. How much unrest was boiling over in the streets? What had Eleanor dared to decree upon finding not only his letter, but her dead father he left it pinned to? His gaze became far-away and he no longer saw the tavern which he sat in, but instead was envisioning Nassau and, ultimately, Eleanor.

As always, dreaming up her face brought a hurricane of emotions to ravage within him. His expression hardened without his realization, his lips pressed together in a firm line. The anger curled so tight in his gut he felt sick. A muscle over his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth. An ache hit him, dull now, in his chest. He had hoped, just once, Eleanor could see his way of reasoning, just once she could place faith in him.

But everything was done her way. Everyone in her path would be dealt with, one way or another, even if it meant leaving them to a fate worse than death. Charles tried not to think of what might have happened if he hadn’t built the unfortunate fail-safe plan he had created. It wouldn’t be beneficial to wander down _that_ path, no matter how angry he was and all the ways he wanted to think of how greatly Eleanor had betrayed him.

As always to traitors, he’d promised.

What would he find when he and his crew arrived in Nassau? She’d taken his ship from him once, but things were different now. Or, he liked to think they were. With he and Flint working toward a common cause (keeping Nassau strong against an inevitable attack), Flint would possibly see the inconvenience of Charles being stripped of all his strength. Furthermore, Flint’s opinion on Nassau’s future seemed to have shifted the day he decided to lay Charlestown to rubble. No longer did Eleanor have an ally in him, thought Charles; bitterly, he felt somewhat prideful.

Could he do to her as he had done to her father? Leave her beaten, crucified on a cross, shown as an example to any of Nassau or any who thought to let tyranny reign over free men?

His gut curled into an even tighter knot. He cleared his throat and flicked ash from the end of his cigarette; shifting uncomfortably in his chair and pulling another drag, he let it linger in his mouth before he exhaled. She had done to him worse than what anyone else had; she knew him more intimately than anyone else; she’d tossed everything they had aside in favor of _what_? A plan that he’d told her was doomed to the fail from the start? A plan that had, in fact, failed? Yet in spite of it, in spite of what she’d done, Charles Vane, the butcher of Nassau, could not stomach the thought of seeing her injured.

“Turned over to the Brits, I heard!”

The roar of approval was loud enough that it broke Charles’ train of thought, which he was momentarily grateful for. Taking a large drink of the alcohol he’d forgotten about up until that point, he blinked and frowned, looking toward the crowd of men gathered, laughing. It was a mix, some faces he recognized as men from Flint’s crew, a few with long dreads from his, and others he didn’t recognize which were likely to be pirates that called Tortuga home. 

“Fuck them Guthrie bastards! Nassau is free to us now!”

“Fuck that cunt!”

_Fuck that cunt!_ Went the cheer loudly from the crowd, followed by more ruckus as they drank.

Charles felt as though ice splashed in his belly. Where he’d been faded away from the tavern’s conversations before he now listened to it solely, learning Hornigold and Dufresne had taken Eleanor from the streets of Nassau and turned her over to the British Royal Navy. The anger within him grew, doubly so, but it was the face of Hornigold he saw (he didn’t know who Dufresne was) and he only dreamed the old bastard was in arm’s reach at that very moment. Having his hands wrapped around Hornigold’s throat would be the closest to nirvana that Charles could ever hope to come. His desire was such that he could even envision the man’s face turning from red, to blue-purple; he could even _feel_ the neck in his hands and his large thumbs pressing hard into Hornigold’s windpipe, crushing it.

Suddenly, the tavern felt as if it were too crowded. Too warm. Too loud. The fools were celebrating the abolishment of what they viewed as tyranny from the streets of Nassau, and Charles would hear none of it. He could only think of Eleanor, marched to the guillotine before a crowd; why would her status as a woman change how England would treat her? They needed to make an example after the pirates had made one of Charlestown, why not use this opportunity to do so?

He stood from the table, leaving his tankard behind, cigarette pinched in his fingers as he shoved his way back through the crowd – this time more aggressively, pushing his shoulder into men he passed and knocking them to the side. A few shouts of indignation trailed his back, but Charles didn’t slow in step. The briny sea air, with a breeze pulled in from the bay, was cool when he stepped outside. It washed over him and, within a few steps, helped clear away the buzz of rage beating at the insides of his head.

The anger lingered as it was wont to do, but dread crept in as well. He could do nothing for her. He could do nothing _because_ of her. If ever there had been a line drawn between what they were and their roles in this world, it was now. She’d betrayed him, stolen a prize from him, something that warranted death when done by anyone who dared defy him. She, along with her father, had lorded over Nassau. Charles was among the small percentile that could see a presence like the Guthrie’s had been necessary in order for the pirates to sell their stolen goods, but the men on the beach couldn’t see past their next fuck, let alone understand the concept of how they earned their keep. The fall of the Guthrie’s was a blessing, an obscene gesture to the world that no one could lord over the rogues who made port in Nassau.

If he dared argue against it, if he dared voice opposite of the crowd, they’d turn on him like they’d turn on her. Given the proclamation he’d left behind after taking the life of Richard Guthrie, he was expected to celebrate with the rest of them or face a crew he’d barely regained control over.

Given what she’d done to him, he could do nothing to help her now. This was how their story ended, with Eleanor Guthrie a prisoner to the English crown, likely to soon be swung from a rope and Charles meant to loathe the very memory of her rather than feel the sting of fresh heartbreak in his chest.


End file.
